


Silence Is Wiser

by Crowgirl



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Not Beta Read, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Trapped In A Closet, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-05-25 17:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14981696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: Hiding in a closet from Russian traffickers should be all in a day’s work.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [He Wants To Say](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14975081) by [Catchclaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw). 



Q squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to breathe because if he breathes he might well scream and that would not be good. He can hear the Russians moving around in their office over the sound of blood pounding in his ears. ‘Bond--’ He hopes it doesn’t come out as a frantic whine. ‘Get us out of here. _Now.’_

‘Sssh.’ It’s more of an exhalation of shaped air than a word. ‘Patience. The point is not to get caught, yes?’ 

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck---_ Q loses himself in a mantra of profanity for a minute then forces himself to stop and take a deep breath. He is an agent of her majesty’s secret service, for fuck’s sake; hiding in a closet from Russian traffickers should be all in a day’s work. Bond, for example, doesn’t seem any more bothered than he might be about waiting for a bus. Damn him. 

‘The building’s been swept?’ The voice sounds like it’s speaking right in Q’s ear and he shies involuntarily. Bond grabs his arm, fingers digging in painfully hard, and bodily _holds_ him still, a heavy forearm over his breastbone. Q shuts his eyes again and focuses on the pain of Bond’s fingertips.

‘...if she asks about the spy?’ Another voice, further away.

This time Q is _sure_ he doesn’t actually make a noise but Bond’s palm slips over his mouth anyway and he’s not in any sort of position to argue so he keeps his eyes shut and tries to focus on breathing silently through his nose. Bond’s skin smells like wet wool, metal, and the cheap dye of his jacket, dampened by the steady snow outside; under that, though, is an almost sweet scent that Q knows is just Bond’s skin. _Breathe, breathe…,_ he tells himself, _Don’t think, just breathe._

‘Leave out the part where we lost him, yeah?’ There’s a burst of laughter and a door closes.

Bond’s hand remains where it is for a minute, then slips down onto Q’s shoulder, squeezing in what Q thinks is meant to be a reassuring fashion and then -- and then _petting_ him. Bond is _petting_ him as though Q were his cat, long, slow strokes over his shoulders and Q would be thoroughly irritated by that if it weren’t working so damn well to make the panic subside. As it is, he has to fight the instinct to lean into Bond’s shoulder, let his hand come off the wall and onto Bond’s hip -- Bond wouldn’t appreciate that, he’s sure. If there ever was a poster boy for heterosexual excess, it would be Bond. 

But that doesn’t mean he can’t steal what little enjoyment there is to be gotten out of being jammed in a closet next to a room full of slave traders who would kill them both on sight. If nothing else, there is a very real possibility they will both be dead in a quarter of an hour. If there ever was a time to _carpe diem,_ this would be it.

With that in mind, Q shifts position very slightly, anticipating every second that the slow, smooth strokes of Bond’s palm over his shoulders and down his back will cease -- but they don’t. Instead, Bond takes the change in position as an opportunity to trace his fingertips along the neckline of Q’s sweater and -- Christ, if he isn’t _nuzzling_ Q’s _ear!_ Q swallows a gasp and tilts his head slightly, slowly, not quite believing that Bond will -- yes, quite definitely, _kiss_ the side of his throat.

‘James…’

‘Mm?’ 

‘Is there...' He has to pause when Bond presses his mouth to the back of Q's neck, less a kiss than a continuation of the petting theme. '...something you’d like to talk about?’ He can feel Bond smile, the curve of lips against the side of his throat, just under his ear.

‘Later.’


	2. Chapter 2

_Later_ comes sooner than Q had hoped -- or feared, he’s not sure which. Q had given up keeping his hands off Bond what might be hours or minutes ago but he can’t _reach_ very much which is intensely frustrating. Bond is still pressed tight against his back, hands smoothing over Q’s chest and Q might be flattering himself here but there’s a tightness to Bond’s breathing that would seem to indicate he’s almost equally frustrated with their lack of mobility. 

About ten minutes after they hear the door into the stairwell close and there are no voices, no sound of movement in the room, Bond pushes Q into the back corner of the closet. ‘Stay. Still.’ 

Q nods -- although it doesn’t make much difference in the pitch-black -- and resists the urge to hide his face against the back of James’s shoulder. The fact is that coming out of this thinking of Bond as James is not the worst thing that could happen this morning.

James pushes the door open gingerly, an inch at a time, pauses to listen, then, apparently reassured, elbows the door wide and steps out, turning back to offer his hand to Q with a flourish. ‘Sir.’ 

‘Don’t fuck about, Bond, lets just get this over with.’ 

James drops his hand back to his side but the smirk doesn’t fade and neither does the brush of high color over his cheekbones. ‘And here I thought sir might enjoy fucking about.’

Q _doesn’t_ growl the way he feels tempted to, _doesn’t_ roll his eyes and huff and stalk past Bond to get their actual work done. Instead, a little to his own surprise, he steps forward and _plasters_ himself against Bond, slides his hands to the warm small of Bond’s back under his jacket, gets as close as he can get with them both still clothed, and _breathes_ the words against Bond’s lips. ‘Get me somewhere that _isn’t_ a bloody den of thieves and we can fuck about just as much as you like.’ 

Bond doesn’t budge, just smiles against Q’s mouth. ‘Is that a promise?’

‘It’s a fucking _dare_ if you want it to be but lets get out of _here_ first!’


	3. Chapter 3

As it turns out, “fucking about” is not precisely what Q would call it. “Fucking about,” to his mind, implies quick satisfaction, short and maybe sweet, a little dirty perhaps, even rough. 

James is _slow_ \-- Q even finds himself thinking “careful” which isn’t a word he would have associated with Bond at all. But it suits James perfectly.

It isn’t until Q finds himself shoes off and shirtless, out of breath, on his knees straddling James’s thighs as he sits on the edge of the bed, that Q thinks to comment on it. ‘This is your idea of fucking about, is it?’

James pulls his mouth away from the hollow of Q’s sternum and looks up at him, flushed, lips slick, his hair rough from where Q has had his hands in it. ‘I’ve wanted to do this for far too long to fuck about with it.’ 

Q blinks. ‘You -- you have?’ His voice sounds small in his own ears and he wishes he could snatch the words back but _honestly:_ half of MI5 dreams of fucking James bloody Bond, would trip over themselves even to get that twisted half-smile of his, and here he is leaving hickeys on Q’s chest.

James says something in answer, but most of the words are lost against Q’s skin and all Q catches is ‘...fucking beautiful…’ which makes him flush even hotter and wind his fingers more tightly through the short hair at the nape of James’ neck.


	4. Chapter 4

‘You’re -- you haven’t _come,’_ Q says, half-accusing.

James laughs, his arm thrown over his eyes. ‘And this offends you?’

Q squirms out from under the weight of James’s leg and stretches over him, dropping kisses on ribs, stomach, navel, whatever he can reach. ‘It makes me feel a little selfish.’

James shakes his head, then reaches up to slide his fingers back into Q’s hair; the tangle seems to fascinate him. ‘I rather thought selfish was the point of this evening.’

‘Was it?’ Q has to resist the urge to push into James’ hand like a cat being stroked. ‘Well.’ He leans down and gives into the temptation to lick the soft hollow of James’ throat. ‘No-one informed me.’ 

He strings kisses along the center of James chest until coarse hair tickles his chin and he can smell musk and sweat and his mouth starts to water. He pushes himself up on one elbow, tracing the length of James’ cock with one finger. Even that light touch brings a pulse of liquid from the tip and a harsh intake of breath from James. 

‘Q -- you -- really --’ There’s something unfamiliar in James’ voice and Q squints up to try and read his expression. James is staring fixedly at the ceiling, though, and all Q can see is the angle of his chin. ‘You don’t have to.’

Q laughs -- he can’t help it. ‘And most people would say you should probably avoid fucking your quartermaster and yet here we are.’ Here they are, far beyond fucking: it had been beyond fucking the moment James had unbuttoned Q's shirt and kissed each inch of skin he revealed. 

Now, he pushes James’ thighs wide and kneels between them, planting a hand on either side of James’ hips. 

James snorted at the bad joke but now he's peering down the length of his body at Q as though he thinks Q seriously-- that Q might _honestly_ \-- that there’s even an outside chance in _hell_ that Q--

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Bond -- do you think you’re the only one in MI5 with eyes in your head?’ 


	5. Chapter 5

Q wakes up in an empty bed in a silent room. He pushes himself up on his elbow long enough to look around -- the apartment isn’t large and he can see most of it from the bed if he cranes around a bit -- and establish that, yes, he really is on his own, Bond is nowhere in sight, then lets himself flop back onto the thin pillow and stare at the ceiling. 

Well.

It had been a nice evening anyway. Evening and most of the night, really. A damn sight better than the day that went before it, that's certain. 

Q shakes his head and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes hard enough that he can see colored sparks in the darkness. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he tells himself aloud and has to drop his hands because giving himself this talk while being able to smell Bond on his skin is not going to go well. ‘Get up. Have a shower. Get some coffee. You’ve got work to do.’ He takes a deep breath and throws back the covers, swinging his legs out of bed and grimacing at the feel of the cheap carpet under his toes. ‘Right.’ 

‘Oh--’ There’s a draft of cold air and Bond is standing in the doorway, a cardboard cup in each hand and a grease-stained paper bag tucked under one elbow. ‘Getting up already?’ He looks disappointed and Q’s heart chokes him for a beat.

Bond is obviously waiting for a reply and they can’t just stare at each other wordlessly all day. ‘Well, I woke up and you were gone so I assumed--’

‘Oh, did you.’ Bond knocks the bedroom door shut with his heel and comes across to the bed. He sets the cups down -- Q can smell the unholy strong coffee from the bakery around the corner -- and puts the bag down beside them. ‘I would have thought you'd know all about assumptions.’ 

Before Q can make any kind of response to that, Bond shrugs out of his jacket, drops it on the foot of the bed, toes out of his shoes, and starts to undo his belt. He’s wearing the same ill-fitting jeans and shirt from previous day, carefully picked out back in London to try and make Bond look less than he is, and Q’s staring -- he _knows_ he’s staring and he can’t stop himself but this part had all happened rather quickly the night before and Q had been a bit distracted and now-- Bond isn’t trying to make a show out of this but he is _right there,_ increasingly naked skin close enough that Q would barely have to lift a hand to touch him.

Bond tosses his shirt on top of his jacket and rolls his shoulder briefly as if trying to release tension in the muscle. There’s an old gunshot wound there -- Q had glimpsed it the night before but he can see the scar more clearly now and it’s really quite dramatic-- ‘What are you doing!’ 

James chuckles in his ear as he bears Q backwards onto the mattress and sprawls half on-top of him as if Q might try to get away, stretching down to drag the quilt over them. ‘Teaching you about assumptions.’ 

‘What about them?’ Q finds himself being rearranged along the length of Bond’s body, being _scooped_ into Bond’s arms without so much as a by-your-leave and two can play this game so he does. Bond’s breath catches for a moment then goes out with a sigh when Q slides a knee over his thigh, drapes himself over Bond’s shoulder. This close, it’s impossible not to notice that James hasn’t showered -- he smells of cold, cigarette smoke, and the heavy afterscent of sex and Q can’t _imagine_ what the ladies who run the bakery thought.

‘Dangerous things,’ James continues, the airiness of his tone belied by the care with which he eases an arm around Q’s shoulders, the gentleness of his hands as he weaves his fingers together over Q’s ribs. ‘You can end up in all sorts of trouble assuming.’

‘And you can end up in all sorts of trouble by not explaining yourself,’ Q says, as tartly as he can manage when really what he wants to do is purr like a cat being stroked and get as close to as much of naked James as he can.

‘What would you like me to explain?’

 _what is this how long have you been thinking about this why didn’t you say something before what about when we go back to London what about tomorrow what do you want why do you want me why me_ Q can’t pick where to start.

Bond’s fingers smooth through Q’s hair as if he can feel the tangle of words. ‘It really isn’t that complicated.’

‘It’s _not?’_ Q can’t keep the disbelief out of his voice and James chuckles again.

‘You’re gorgeous, you’re brilliant -- you really thought no-one was looking?’ 

‘Well -- not _you!’_

‘I don’t suppose I have a reputation for being discerning,’ James allows and lets his fingers trail down the side of Q’s throat, tracing the soft skin under his ear until Q shudders, his own fingers clenching over James’s ribs. James curls forward so his lips brush Q's ear when he speaks again. ‘But I think you’ll find that’s a job hazard, not a personal preference.’ 


	6. Chapter 6

It’s been six weeks since Sevastopol and Bond’s been gone for five weeks and four days of that time and quite honestly Q needs to find something different to think about.

And the minute he figures out how to do that, he’ll get right on it. 

‘Sir?’ 

Q looks up at the woman on the other side of his desk: young (of course), nervous (of course), clutching a tablet and a fistful of papers (of course) and resists the urge to sigh. Instead, he takes a deep breath, leans forward, and tries to smile encouragingly. ‘Sorry, can you run through that once more?’

* * *

The rest of the meeting goes surprisingly well and Q dismisses Parvati with no more than the usual sinking feeling he always has on handing a problem over to someone else. Before he can entirely lose the momentum he’s gained from talking over coding, he turns on the kettle for fresh tea and turns to the disassembled bit of hardware on the table behind his desk. It’s a pet project -- nothing important, just a proximity detector wired into a normal ear piece, but he thinks he can turn it into something rather fun by way of a minesweeper. Bond would certainly---

Q grits his teeth. Bond can bugger off is what he can do -- which is apparently exactly what he _has_ done, off either causing havoc or mopping it up in various bits of Africa and Q is not going to sit here and -- and _moon_ like some lovestruck teenager _nor_ is he going to feel hurt that what he had initially thought was a fling was, in fact, a fling. It only goes to show that he should trust his gut more often. Three nights in a grotty Crimean bedsit do not a lasting relationship make. It had been ridiculous of him to think it was anything more than what it had been; Bond clearly hadn’t and Q won’t either. 

The kettle clicks itself off and Q reaches out without looking to pour his tea.

‘You’re going to burn yourself doing that.’

Q yelps and drops the kettle which bounces, spraying hot water everywhere, and jerks himself back from the scalding puddle. His chair knocks into his desk and he hears something tip over. 

‘Christ, I’m sorry -- are you all right?’ Bond is at his feet. Quite literally kneeling at his feet, ruining the trousers of a sickeningly expensive-looking suit in an expanding pool of hot water. 

‘Well, I was before some git ruined my tea,’ Q says, rather than flinging himself into Bond’s arms like some Mills & Boone heroine. He gets up and goes across to his work table to get the kitchen roll he leaves there. 

Bond helps silently, taking torn-off squares and making a soggy checkerboard of the floor. They wait a minute, still in silence, then Q kicks all the damp bits of towel together and, grimacing, picks them up and dumps them in the bin. ‘I suppose the cleaners will be happy. No need to mop in here.’

He dries his hands roughly on his trousers and looks at Bond, summoning up his best uninterested expression. ‘Was there something you wanted or did you just come in to spoil my tea?’

‘I was rather hoping you were done for the day,’ Bond says, and his expression is a study. Q can’t categorize all the pieces of it and he doesn’t realise he hasn’t answered the implied question until Bond clears his throat.

‘Oh! I -- no. No, I haven’t,’ Q says firmly. He’s damned if he’s going to drop everything and run just because Bond decided to saunter back in for the afternoon. 

‘When will you be?’ 

‘I don’t know. Sometime ‘round six probably. Why?’ 

Bond blinks and looks genuinely puzzled. ‘I thought you might like dinner.’

‘With you.’

Bond blinks again. ‘I -- suppose I could give you the money for your half if you’d prefer. But -- yes, I had imagined we might go together.’ 

Q crosses his arms and tries to stiffen his spine and he wants to come out with something tart and biting and _perfect,_ but when he opens his mouth what actually comes out is: ‘I know calling the next day isn’t really your style but surely six weeks is leaving it a bit late.’ 

Bond’s expression solidifies but in the second before it does Q catches something else, a flash of something that looks like sadness, before Bond’s lips tighten and his jaw firms and his blue eyes go carefully expressionless. ‘Yes. Of course. I thought perhaps--’ He waves a hand airily, then sighs and runs a hand through his hair and when he looks back at Q, he just looks tired. ‘I buggered it up, didn’t I?’ He nods without Q saying anything. ‘I knew I would.’ The last words are so quiet Q isn't entirely sure Bond realises he's spoken them aloud.

‘You -- didn’t mean to?’

‘’Course I bloody well didn’t!’ Bond’s studied blandness falls away and Q can see the exhaustion, the impatience, the sadness before Bond sighs again and turns away. He pauses and speaks without turning back: ‘For what it’s worth and, believe me, I don’t imagine that’s very much -- I didn’t want it to be like this.’ He waves a hand dispiritedly between them and steps around the corner of Q’s desk. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

‘No!’ Q blurts the word out before he thinks and Bond -- _James_ \-- stops and glances back at him in well-justified surprise.

‘No?’ James echoes.

‘I didn’t want it to be like this either,’ Q says, feeling himself flush, knowing he’s going to be the color of a geranium in a few seconds’ time. ‘So apologize.’ 

‘Apologize.’ 

‘Apologize, say you were an arse and you won’t do it again, and take me out to dinner. Somewhere pointlessly expensive, please.’ 

James looks at him for a long moment, then shakes his head slowly and Q’s heart hurts. ‘I can’t say I won’t do it again. I will. You know I will. I have to. It’s not my choice.’ He shrugs. ‘Or if it ever was, I made it a long time ago and I can’t change it now.’

Relief almost leaves Q weak-kneed. ‘I know _that._ D’you think I’m stupid, Bond? The point is that you _say_ it. You can say it the next time as well.’ 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It almost kills Q when he realises there’s a pattern.

It almost kills Q when he realises the pattern.

Quite literally almost kills him, in fact, as he has a soldering iron in one hand and the shell of an explosive in the other and the _actual_ explosive on the bench before him.

However, reflexes kick in before he can do anything _too_ stupid and he puts the iron down and puts the shell over the C-4 (childish stuff but good enough to test the principle), and sits himself down on the tall stool he uses at this workbench.

He hadn’t even been aware that he was thinking about James, not really. He knows where James is -- upstairs, sixth floor, or perhaps seventh: something to do with background for his next outing -- and he knows James is safe -- the bruises on his back from his last outing are nearly healed -- and that’s as much as he had been conscious of _thinking_ about the man but apparently his unconscious had been busily processing through something and--

‘Jesus,’ Q breathes and scrubs at his face with his hands. 

* * *

‘Packing it in for the day already?’ James inquires, elbowing open his office door.

Q stares at him as if he’s never seen him before and James pauses, gaze darting around the office. ‘Something the matter?’

‘No! No, no, no, just --’ Q brushes a hand through his hair and makes a vague whirling gesture. ‘Thinking.’

‘I didn’t mean to startle you. Shall I--’ James tilts his head towards the hallway and Q nearly leaps off the stool.

‘No, no, no -- would you like tea? I was just going to make some--’ 

James lets go his grip on the door. ‘I was hoping I might persuade you to knock off early.’

‘Were you.’ Q sticks his hands in his pockets, lifts an eyebrow.

That gets him a smirk. ‘I was.’ 

‘You’ve got your marching orders, then.’ James only ever tries to pull him out of work early when he’s going to be leaving soon.

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Well, I suppose I could make up for an early day today with a late one tomorrow.’

* * *

When he has James naked under him in his bed, Q tests the pattern. 

James is pushing himself up on one elbow, sliding a hand down Q’s side towards his hip; Q catches his hand, kisses his fingertips, and then pins his wrist to the mattress.

James raises an eyebrow. ‘Really?’ He stretches back against the pillows. ‘I’m a bit out of your weight class.’

‘I’ve always been quite aware,’ Q says, shifting his own position so he’s straddling James’s thighs. ‘That I’ll hold you for precisely as long as you wish to be held and not a moment longer.’ 

James’s eyes flicker dark for a moment and his hand twitches under Q’s fingers, but he doesn’t try to pull free and he doesn’t say anything. 

Q cocks his head, stroking his free hand down the center of James’s chest, over the slight rise of his ribcage, down the valley of muscle over his abdomen. The muscles jump under his hand; if he didn’t know better, he’d think James was ticklish. 

‘Q--’

‘Is this really all I have to do?’ 

James blinks at him, then cranes his chin down to his chest and gazes thoughtfully down the length of his body at Q’s hand which is markedly not near James’s cock. ‘Well, not quite _all.’_

Q shakes his head. ‘That’s not what I mean.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ 

Q rolls his eyes and leans forward, caging James in with a hand planted on either side of his head and Q’s knees firmly on either side of his hips. James pulls his lower lip between his teeth for a moment as Q’s weight shifts and presses their bodies together but he says nothing and only raises his eyebrows as if to prompt Q on.

‘You know I’m not the only person who would, don’t you?’

‘Who would… what?’ 

Q lifts one hand and traces his fingers down the side of James’s face, stopping with his fingertips just over the pulse point in his throat. ‘Be nice to you.’

‘What?’ 

‘I only realised this afternoon -- you must think I’m quite dim but it honestly hadn’t occurred to me.’

‘I’m afraid you’ll think I’m equally dim but I’ve no idea what you’re on about.’

‘You’re not like this in the field.’

‘Not like _what,_ exactly?’ 

‘I just want to know if it’s me or not.’

‘Certainly you’re the only person I’ve come across who can regularly be this irritating in bed.’ James’s forearms flex under his hands and Q presses a bit harder. 

‘And you’ve come across so many, haven’t you.’

‘What the fuck are you _on_ about, Q?’ 

Q swallows; there’s an inconvenient pain in his throat. ‘I’ve been a convenience before, James, and I--’ He has to pause to find the next word. James stares at him for a minute and before Q can dig any more words out of the deeply inconvenient blank his mind has suddenly become, James has pulled his hands free, caught Q’s upper arms, and flipped their positions as neatly as if Q weighed nothing at all.

* * *

‘Now listen to me, you great brain on legs you,’ James says, settling his weight back on his heels, both of Q’s hands gathered in his, his thumbs stroking over the soft skin on the inside of Q's wrists. 

Q tries to protest, tries to come up with something that will derail what he’s sure will be a pitiless razoring of his ego now that he’s shown James the weak spot but he can’t come up with anything before James is talking again.

‘You’re probably the cleverest person in the whole damned Service, Q, so forgive me for not realising you had missed the obvious quite this thoroughly.’

Q’s throat _aches_ now and he wishes he had never started any of this -- _damn_ that big brain of his straight to hell if this is where it gets him -- will he never learn when to keep his bloody mouth _shut._ Is being a convenience for a man like Bond _really_ so terrible? James is nothing like Trevor or Gareth or Matthew: he actually _talks_ to Q, seems to listen to him, too, cares about what makes Q feel good, seems to want to see him outside of a bedroom or a dark corner-- And he's still talking and perhaps Q should listen to that.

‘--thinking out several hundred permutations of the possible that you’ve forgotten to look at what’s in front of you.’ James pauses and looks down at him and his expression is almost _fond._ He collects Q’s hands in one of his and reaches out, carefully, slowly, as if Q might startle or bite, and brushes an errant lock of hair off his forehead. Q’s aware that he’s probably goggling up at James like a fool but he can’t seem to make himself stop. James’s fingertips linger on his temple, over his ear, down the side of his cheek. 

‘And I suppose I’m not the best at this sort of thing myself. So I’m sorry. If I’ve left you with the impression that you’re -- _convenient.’_ The twist of James’s mouth makes it quite clear what he thinks of the word and the ache in Q’s throat eases a tiny bit. ‘You’re not. If it makes you feel any better, you’re anything _but_ convenient. M’s already made it quite clear more than once that he would have been delighted had either of us chosen anyone else.’

‘Christ, James, I--’

‘Don’t you even think about it,’ James interrupts, pressing his fingertips over Q’s lips. ‘M can do with a bit more frustration in his life. He’s got far too many people bowing and scraping to him as it is.’

Q bites the inside of his lip and subsides. 

‘And I don’t know what I’ve done or left undone to make you think you’re a _convenience_ for me…’ James leans forward, replacing his fingertips with his lips, one hand planted on the pillow by Q’s head -- he can hear the rustling of the feathers -- the other sliding back under Q’s neck, cradling the base of his skull, fingers sliding up through his hair. 

James kisses him for Q doesn’t know how long: one breath, two, five, he loses count. And when James finally draws back, he does so reluctantly, slowly, as if Q’s mouth is some treat he has been anticipating for days. ‘If you need me to be blunt about it --’ He pauses, tilts his head slightly, waits.

Q nods, breathless. ‘I think -- perhaps I do.’

James’s hands come back on either side of his face. ‘I’m here as long as you want me here.’ He pauses, his eyes sharp on Q’s face, as if he can see into Q’s brain and know whether or not his words have sunk home. If Q could find any breath, he could tell him that they had: his whole body is singing with them. 

James shakes his head, and drops forward onto his forearms so their foreheads are pressed together. ‘You beautiful thing you. How could you think otherwise?’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even sure, honestly. If you want to thank anyone for this, thank Catchclaw and elizajane.

**Author's Note:**

> You have no idea how happy it makes me to tell you that the title for this fic comes from [Charles Haddon Spurgeon,](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/20486-there-are-times-when-solitude-is-better-than-society-and) noted nineteenth century Protestant evangelist.


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